Looks Like Loss
by happycabbage75
Summary: Sam and Dean get into trouble working a ghost infested antebellum mansion in the Deep South. Just one ghost too many...
1. Chapter 1

**Looks Like Loss**

Summary: Sam and Dean get into trouble working a ghost infested antebellum mansion in the Deep South. Just one ghost too many...

Disclaimer: Boy, do I have less than nothing to do with this show, other than shamelessly using it to amuse myself until the pros take over.

Chapter One

* * *

"Sam, I hope you know what you're doing," Dean sighed, looking out the window as they passed house after house, searching for the right address. 

"Look, Dean. You know what I do. A friend of a friend of a friend called someone who knew someone who gave them our number," Sam said, not bothering to hide his irritation. "They asked for our help and I said we'd take a look."

"Yeah, I got it," Dean said, still squinting at addresses while trying not to drive into parked cars, "But you know how these old houses in these little southern towns are. Every one of 'em says they have a ghost. It's good for the tourists."

"If they took the trouble to find us, at least we can take a look. It's not like we're in the phone book," Sam sighed. "If nothing else, they're willing to give us room and board and some cash to boot. We go in, spread a little salt, they feel better and we get a few bucks. It's a win-win situation."

"It's a waste of time," Dean shot back. "They probably opened a bed and breakfast in one of these old 'Gone with the Wind' type houses and they're looking for some publicity." He glanced at Sam. "I mean I know _I'm_ photogenic, but what are they gonna do with you?"

Sam just shook his head. "I hope you're right. It'll be a lot less trouble if you are."

Dean drove past several more older houses in various states of repair and then stopped. "Whoa. Two guesses, but I'm betting that's the one."

The house was on a huge wooded lot, the large, pillared mansion tucked into the surrounding neighborhood of smaller homes. A small wooden sign by the road said, 'Ravenwood,' the name of the house they were looking for.

Dean parked the car on the street in front of the mansion and together they walked up the long brick walk to the wide, pillared front porch.

"How's your leg?" Sam asked.

"It's fine," Dean said nonchalantly, silently cursing that his brother had noticed the slight limp he was trying to shake off. "Just been cooped up in the car too long."

Sam frowned, but thankfully let it pass. Dean didn't want to talk about it. Too many trips to the zoo hadn't done his leg any good, but it was just sore now, that was all.

They walked up onto the porch that spanned the length of the mansion and Dean patted one of the huge pillars. "Ok, if I'm Rhett Butler that makes you…" he cocked his head to the side, as if studying his brother.

"Dean…" Sam said in warning.

"Let's see… Bookish, broody, hair's too long… not sure what to do with women…" Dean nodded. "Yeah, you've got Ashley written all over you."

Sam sighed. "Well, at least you picked a guy," he said and knocked on the large front door.

Dean snorted. "He has a chick name… whines a lot too. I'm not sure I'd be too proud."

"Says the man who's clearly seen 'Gone with the Wind' more than once," Sam raised an eyebrow.

Dean's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to reply, but the door opened, abruptly stopping their conversation.

"I'm sorry," the man in the doorway said, "but tours are over for today. You'll have to come back later."

"I'm Dean, this is my brother Sam. We got a call a few days ago…"

Sam and Dean shared a glance at the man's obvious relief as he threw the door wide open.

"Please come in," he gestured. "We've been waiting for you." He looked to be about fifty and was dressed casually in an affluent, though unshowy way. "I'm Geoff Pruett," he held out his hand for them to shake and ushered them inside. "Martha, the ghostbusters are here!" he shouted into the next room.

Dean shook his head in disgust, while Sam covered a laugh with a short cough.

A few seconds later, a tall thin woman wearing a linen skirt and a multi-colored pastel shirt came through the door to their right and also politely shook their hands. "As I'm sure you gathered from my husband's bellow, I'm Martha Pruett."

"Pleased to meet you, Ma'am," Dean said politely. He didn't know what it was, but she had Southern Belle written all over her and being rude was out of the question.

"Have you boys had dinner?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, Ma'am," Sam answered, obviously falling under the same spell.

"Then I'll just get you some iced tea," she smiled. "Geoffrey, why don't you take them into the other room and let them sit down."

"Sure thing," he smiled and motioned toward the room his wife had come from.

Dean led the way and looked around the large, high-ceilinged space, wondering where to sit. The furniture all looked far too dainty and Scarlett O'Hara-like.

"I feel the same way," Geoff laughed. "Give me a big comfy couch to sit on any day. Don't worry," he slapped Dean on the back, "this is just for the tourists. We live upstairs. Have a seat, though. You won't break anything."

Sam and Dean sat side by side on what he supposed qualified as a sofa. Granted, 99 percent of the places they stayed didn't even have a chair, so he supposed he shouldn't complain.

"So did y'all get to see any of the town?" Mr. Pruett asked. "There are some beautiful homes open for touring. There are some wonderful restaurants too."

Martha came back in the room carrying several tall glasses of iced tea on a tray. "We'd be happy to give you directions," she said, as they accepted the drinks.

"No disrespect, Ma'am," Dean cleared his throat, "but we've been on the road for three straight days to get here. It's almost dark and we don't know anything. So why don't you just tell us why we're here."

An unreadable look passed between the couple, but they didn't say anything.

"How long have you lived in the house?" Sam asked, trying to get them started.

"All my life," Geoff said. "My family has owned the house since the early 1900's."

"Have there always been problems?" Dean asked.

"Oh, no. Our… problems only started in the last couple of months."

"You know the history of the house?" Sam asked. "I ask because it often helps to know of any… traumatic events that have taken place in a home… any deaths… They can leave marks," Sam explained.

Geoff snorted and Martha shushed him though she too was smiling. "If you're looking for traumatic events," he said, "you've come to the right place. Even for an antebellum mansion, this place is a bit special."

"How so?" Sam frowned.

"The house was built in three sections," he said, his tone taking on that of a lecturer. "The oldest section was built in the late 1700's. It was a frontier house, but brick. The man was a… bandit, I guess you'd say. He and his gang rode around robbing travelers and the other settlements. One night, he came home from a raid with a posse on his tail. His wife didn't appreciate it. She slit his throat, then had a servant bury him in the woods somewhere so that when the posse came she could say she didn't know where he was."

"His own wife slit his throat?" Sam asked and Mr. Pruett nodded.

"Nice," Dean grimaced. "He married a real peach…"

"I'm thinking he left the cap off the toothpaste one too many times," Geoff said, a very slight grin appearing. "In any case, we don't know what happened to the wife. The land reverted to the government a few years later and the local Sheriff took it over. He added on to the house, but his wife died in childbirth and he left it."

"She died in the house?" Sam asked.

"Upstairs," Martha pointed.

"The next owner added the largest part of the house in the years before the Civil War. He's the one who added the galleries, that's what we call porches on these old houses, the pillars, etc to match the style at the time. He was shot at the front gate by soldiers when he refused to let them in." He rubbed his forehead trying to remember. "Who was next, honey?"

"There's more?" Dean asked uneasily. How many people could die badly in one house?

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Pruett nodded. "After the war, the family who bought the house had a son who fell over the railing on the upper gallery and died. Most of that family left, but one of the child's spinster sisters stayed." Martha pursed her lips. "They eventually found the body when she didn't come to church two weeks in a row."

"Ok," Dean let out a breath slowly. "So lots of dead people running around."

"Everyone would have had a decent burial though except for the robber guy," Sam said, as if to himself.

"Of course, we haven't actually had any problems in the house. It's all been on the grounds," Martha said.

Dean opened his mouth to ask for specifics, but their host cut him off.

"Y'all do know there was a battle here?" Geoff asked.

"Is that important?" Dean frowned.

Mr. Pruett shrugged. "Only if you care that there are 500 soldiers in the back yard in unmarked graves."

"You gotta be kidding me," Dean said, sitting back on the sofa.

The man raised an eyebrow. "It's a big back yard."

"So what happened that made you call us?" Sam asked.

"It started with the smell," Mrs. Pruett wrinkled her nose.

"What kind of smell?" Sam asked.

"Like something rotten… or something dead," Geoff answered. "We would smell it every morning when we came downstairs. To be honest, I was thinking maybe an animal had gotten into the walls or the cellar and died. We looked everywhere though and couldn't find anything. The smell would go away after a bit, but then be back every morning."

"That's not really a reason you call someone like us," Dean observed.

"No," Martha shook her head. "Then we started seeing campfires in the woods behind the house. After that we started hearing shots."

"Shots?" Dean and Sam echoed each other.

"Gunfire," Mr. Pruett said.

"You've been out to look?" Dean asked.

"Sure. I've looked. The police have looked." The phone rang, abruptly cutting off conversation. "Excuse me," Geoff said and reached for a phone hidden behind a large vase. "Ravenwood."

He paused and they all saw his face tighten warily. "Hello, John. What can I do for you?" He listened for several more seconds and then shook his head though the caller couldn't see him. "Of course. We'll be here," he said and hung up.

"What is it?" his wife asked and Dean could hear the fear in her voice.

The man turned to look at them, his face grim. "That was the Sheriff. They've found another body in the back yard. It looks like Jim Childress."

Martha sank back into her chair, tears falling silently.

Dean just looked at Geoff. "_Another_ body? On the phone you said you were having a little ghost problem. How many people have they found dead?"

Mr. Pruett's eyes were bleak. "This makes four."

* * *

_Ye olde teaser… Tomorrow, the real games begin… _


	2. Chapter 2

**Looks Like Loss**

Summary: Sam and Dean get into trouble working a ghost infested antebellum mansion in the Deep South. Just one ghost too many...

_Thank you so much for the kind reviews. Especially for a chapter that was mostly exposition-y chitchat._

Chapter Two

* * *

Sam and Dean made a quick trip to the car to get some supplies and hurried back to the house. 

"I'll show you to your room," Martha said, urging them up the long free-standing staircase in the foyer. "The Sheriff will be here any minute and he doesn't need to know you're here yet. He already thinks we're crazy for calling you."

"He knows you called?" Dean asked.

Mrs. Pruett smiled. "This is a little town. Everyone knows."

"Great." Dean shot Sam a glare that said, _You got us into this mess_.

"I hope you boys don't mind sharing a bed. It's the only other bedroom. It was our son's before he left home," she added.

"I'm sure it'll be just fine, Mrs. Pruett." Dean shot Sam another look that said, _And I'm holding you personally responsible for this disaster_.

"Please, call me Martha," she said, opening the door to a large, high-ceilinged bedroom. There was an oversized four-poster bed set against one wall, a dresser, a huge armoire and a few other odd bits of furniture. A door led off to what looked like a bathroom. The wide second floor porch was visible through two tall windows that went all the way to the floor.

"If you want to go out onto the gallery, just open the windows. They were meant to be doors too. Now if you'll excuse me…" She bustled back out of the room, her troubled frown reappearing as she closed the door behind her.

"Dude, what have you dragged me into?" Dean said, turning on his brother. "Only you could find a house with a whole _herd_ of ghosts."

"It's good for you," Sam smiled, "Keeps your brain working. I know it likes to take a rest from time to time."

"Funny," Dean waved the remark away. "This place is infested and one of the things is bumping people off and leaving them out back."

Sam sat down on the edge of the bed, frowning in thought. "So leave out the little kid who fell. Leave out the spinster and the woman who died in childbirth. They just don't sound the murderous type."

"That would leave the bandit raiding guy, the dude who got shot at the gates defending the place and about 500 dead soldiers. That narrows it down real well," Dean shook his head tiredly.

Grabbing up his duffel bag he headed for the adjoining dressing room that had been turned into an attached bath. They were both dead on their feet and they both knew they couldn't wander around out back with the police there. They would just have to get some sleep and see what they could do tomorrow.

Hardly even realizing it, they fell into the familiar routine that had been abandoned the day Sam had left for college. In hundreds of hotels, their father had taken one bed and they had taken the other. Without even having to think about it, they each chose the side they always had.

Dean climbed into the bed and pulled the blankets up. He lay there for several minutes staring at the ceiling. "I don't know about you, but I feel like I'm five years old."

Sam snorted. "Were you already sleeping armed to the teeth when you were five?"

"Some kids got training wheels… I got a .22." Dean closed his eyes and burrowed into the pillow until he was comfortable. "Santa feared me. That's why he stopped coming."

* * *

Dean woke abruptly and held perfectly still, unsure of what had disturbed his sleep. He was lying on his side facing Sam who was sleeping on his stomach. 

He couldn't see anything or hear anything and slowly rolled onto his back. A man stood in the moonlight coming through the high windows leading out onto the porch. The ghost flickered as he turned his head and looked straight at Dean.

"You're a soldier, aren't you?" he said quietly. The man's voice was hollow, long dead.

Well, that was a trick question if Dean had ever heard one. As with most things in his life, that was a yes and no. The question though brought his attention to what the ghost was wearing which was a Civil War era uniform. Surprisingly, however, it was a Union uniform. Dean would have expected a Confederate soldier in this area. Granted, if they had been cleaning up a battlefield, men from both sides might be buried out back.

"You understand that I have to do it?" the ghost asked. "Orders are orders."

Dean reached to the side of the bed where he'd set Marigold. Mr. and Mrs. Pruett might think that nothing had happened in the house, but Dean hadn't really wanted to put it to the test. He liked having Marigold nearby anyway. Having the shotgun close at hand was always reassuring. And no Sam didn't know he'd named the shotgun, Marigold. He didn't know and he never would. His brother didn't need any extra ammo in their little war of words.

Dean carefully rose from the bed, grimacing when the floor creaked beneath his feet. As he moved, he kept Marigold leveled at the ghost who had gone back to staring out the window, his outline flickering in the moonlight.

"You should put that away," the soldier said. "The Captain won't like it. He doesn't like being crossed."

"Who's the Captain?" Dean asked. He heard Sam stir, though he stopped moving abruptly, staying in the bed. Dean guessed he'd noticed their unwanted guest.

"Have to obey orders," the ghost said, and Dean could tell the man was no longer speaking to him. The ghost turned and Dean backed away as the soldier began limping toward him, his hand held out like he wanted to touch him. He kept moving and with no other choice, Dean fired, rock salt spreading out in a fan.

The ghost vanished but not before the last wisps reached out and fluttered over Dean's skin, making his hair stand on end. Light flickered in front of his eyes and then died away.

The pain started in the leg that had been injured before and that was just finishing healing. A few seconds later, the pain spread to the other leg, pain like his limbs were on fire, burning from the inside out. He dropped Marigold and fell to the floor, unable to support himself.

"Dean, what's wrong?" he heard Sam say, but Dean didn't dare open his mouth to answer or he would scream.

He tumbled onto his back as the pain spread upward into his abdomen and then into his chest, like flames licking up his body in search of new fuel. His back arched, his muscles contracting, as the unbelievable agony spread down his arms and up his neck until it felt like his brain itself was on fire. He clutched futilely at the carpet, his back bowed until he thought it would snap.

"Sam," he begged, "Sam, please," though he hardly knew what he was asking for. Surely Sam could do something. Anything. Surely Sam could shoot him and make it stop.

Then the pain seemed to lessen, like the tide receding. It left his head and his hands, pouring back into his chest, downward until he fell back flat on the floor. Finally it left both legs, flowing back into just the leg where it had started, receding to only a dull ache. He hardly dared to move for fear of the pain starting again.

"Dean?"

He opened his eyes to see that Sam had turned on a light. His brother was kneeling beside him, one hand on his chest, clenched in his t-shirt, like he was holding onto him for dear life.

"That was… bad," Dean said, his chest still heaving.

"You ok?" Sam asked nervously.

Dean brought his hand up and patted Sam's, still held again his chest. "S'ok. M'ok," he said, his breathing starting to slow.

Sam removed his hand, but remained kneeling, leaning over him for several seconds. Finally, he stood and went to their bags, rummaged for several seconds, then went into the bathroom, reappearing shortly.

"Can you sit up?"

Dean complied, feeling suddenly old, and accepted the aspirin and glass of water Sam handed him. His muscles hadn't appreciated the added workout. His leg in particular had already been sore and was now feeling the strain.

"You wanna tell me what just happened?"

"Ghost…" Dean said, taking a slow, calming breath. "It… It touched me… Don't know why it hurt so much. And what is that _smell_!"

"It was here as soon as you shot the ghost, I think. I wasn't paying much attention after you keeled over," Sam said.

Dean wanted to gag. The smell was foul, like rancid meat. "Can you open a window?"

"The Pruetts said nothing had happened in the house," Sam said angrily, walking to one of the tall windows and throwing it open. "Only the people by the back gate."

"At least we know they're not making it up for publicity," Dean said. He accepted Sam's hand to help him up off the floor and took a few extra seconds to balance on his wobbly legs. Once he was certain he wouldn't fall back down, he began to pace back and forth trying to shake off the 'visit.'

Sam moved back to their bags. "Should've done it anyway," he muttered, pulling out a canister of salt and pouring wide arcs around the windows. He turned toward the door and the startled look on his face brought Dean to a halt. He turned to stand shoulder to shoulder with his brother.

The ghost, a different ghost, Dean observed with some annoyance, stood in front of the door, his image flickering as he grinned, baring his teeth in a predatory smile. He raised an ancient pistol, pointing it steadily at Dean who was slightly closer to him.

"Evening, gents."

Sam and Dean remained in stunned silence, though Dean glanced toward Marigold sitting on the floor several feet away. He doubted he could get to her before the ghost shot one of them. He made a mental note to smack the Pruetts. Noooo… Nothing had happened in the house. It was allll outside. Right.

"I said good evening," the ghost narrowed his eyes when they didn't answer him. "Did your mother not teach you any manners?"

"I'd suggest you not talk about her," Dean growled. He was already in a crappy mood. He so did not want to deal with this right now. Sam reached out and took Dean's arm, silently telling him to watch it.

The ghost had to be the first owner of the house, the robber guy from the late 1700s. His clothing was rough homespun and the pistol looked positively ancient. He also looked like a miniature of a modern man, which would fit the time. Poor nutrition, poor hygiene… People had just been smaller back then.

"You have had one warning," he looked at Dean. "Do _not_ cross me or you will like the next even less."

"I'd appreciate the warning if I knew what it was for," Dean shot back.

"Play coy if you wish. I know the Sheriff has brought you here to stop me. He is too much a coward to bring me in himself."

"I'm having a little trouble being threatened by a guy who's five feet tall. My brother here could fall on you and break you," Dean said. "You should look into some vitamins."

"I am only protecting what I hold dear. Just like you." His eyes glanced toward Sam then moved back to Dean. "You've been warned. Stay out of my way."

The ghost changed his aim to Sam and fired.

* * *

_To the astute readers who have noted my sadistic penchant for repeatedly damaging one of Dean's legs, you are correct. --insert evil grin here-- It was all done just for a certain aspect of this little story… More tomorrow._


	3. Chapter 3

**Looks Like Loss**

_Thanks so much for the reviews. I will appreciate them even more when I can see them all! I'm sorry the replies to you can't get through because of the site problems. Hopefully they will get everything up and running shortly._

Chapter Three

* * *

Sam fell to his knees, searing pain slicing though his head. Had to get to Dean. Had to get to a gun. Had to help his brother.

"Sammy?"

Dean knelt in front of him, holding a towel he'd found somewhere and pressed it against the side of his head.

"Dude, remind me to teach you to duck faster," he said gruffly. Dean really was meant to be more, Sam thought absently. So much more than an angry, smart-mouthed soldier. Maybe an angry, smart-mouthed army nurse. Sam half smiled at the thought. Florence Nightingale, only she'd smack the patients around if they crossed her.

"Sam, are you hallucinating or something? Because the grinning is giving me the creeps," Dean said softly.

"Ghost gone?" Sam asked.

"Right after he shot you. Just poofed," Dean pulled the towel back and looked at the wound grimacing.

"Am I dying?" Sam asked.

"Not even close. Grazed you," Dean said and Sam could hear the barest quake in his brother's voice. "Good thing you've got all this hair. It'll keep you pretty until you heal up."

"S'a good thing he was just warning us. Not sure I want to be there when he's really pissed."

The bedroom door flew open and Geoff Pruett came through, gun in hand. "We heard shots," he said wide-eyed, scanning the room. Finally he noticed his two guests kneeling in the middle of the floor. "Are you ok? What happened?"

"We had an uninvited guest," Dean answered, "your frontier robber guy showed up and shot Sammy here."

"_I beg your pardon_?"

Dean stood and Sam saw him rub his thigh as if it was hurting him. Sam made a mental note to ask about it once they were alone. Right now he just wanted the room to stop spinning as Dean put a hand under his arm and helped him to his feet.

At his brother's gentle urging, Sam followed him unsteadily into the bathroom where Dean expertly patched him up in only a few minutes with their emergency kit.

"I think you've gone from being Rhett to being Scarlett tending the wounded," Sam said woozily.

"I can take those stitches right back out, you know," Dean replied.

"Would one of you tell me what on earth is going on?" Mr. Pruett said angrily.

"What time is it?" Dean asked instead of answering.

Their host huffed in frustration. "Past five."

"Not much time," Dean observed. "Sam, are you up for a little scouting?"

Sam stood up from the sink, took a moment to judge his balance, and then nodded. "I'll be ok. You sure you are?"

Dean only nodded.

Mr. Pruett frowned. "What happened to _you_?"

"Nothing," Dean said. He walked back into the main room, picked up his shotgun, found Sam's in the duffel bag and threw it to him.

"Hold on there," Geoff said, backing up. "Just what do you think this is?"

"Stay here," Dean said, ignoring him again. "We'll be back at dawn."

Mr. Pruett ran his hand through his hair nervously. "Look… this is not what we were expecting…"

"This is why you called us," Sam said firmly. "We know what we're doing." He was grateful Dean withheld the snide comment he knew he was dying to make. "Go stay with your wife. You see what I did with the salt around the windows? You need to do that in your room. Doors and windows. Don't come out until daybreak. Got it?"

Without waiting for an answer they hurried down the stairs and deeper into the house eventually finding a door leading out onto a large brick terrace. The yard seemed to stretch away into the distance, a jungle of huge live oaks and shorter trees visible in the waning moonlight.

"That's a lot of back yard," Dean said ruefully.

"You don't get cemeteries in the normal size," Sam replied.

"Thanks for the reminder. 500 unmarked graves. Rhett Butler never had to deal with this kind of crap."

"The Rhett Butler thing is kinda starting to scare me," Sam muttered, following Dean off the terrace through the wide part of the yard that had been cleared to the edge of the trees.

"Don't worry," Dean whispered. "It's the house. I'll be back to my usual, 'What Would Han Solo Do' thing once we leave."

"I'm not sure that's comforting," Sam whispered back.

"How about Kurt Russell?"

"Yeah, Dean. That's _much_ more reassuring."

The moonlight filtered through the leaves of the trees, barely illuminating the ground as they crept forward. Sam wasn't sure what they were looking for, but his pounding headache told him it needed to be soon. Dawn was fast approaching and his head felt like it might fall off. Dean had washed the wound, but his hair still felt sticky with blood and he wanted a shower if for no other reason than he was starting to feel like a one man insect magnet. Dean, he noticed, was periodically rubbing his thigh as if it was aching, though he never paused in their cautious trudge forward through the heavy ground cover.

Sam's ears suddenly caught a noise, perhaps a voice. Dean must have heard it too, because he changed direction. The quiet voices grew louder as they approached. Cautiously creeping forward, Sam and Dean finally stopped, hidden behind a huge tree.

Peeking out, Sam saw the Union soldier who had attacked Dean sitting on the ground beside a small campfire. More surprising though, sitting on a tree stump, was a woman in a long dress, her back to them.

"Captain said he'd be back soon," the soldier said, addressing the woman. "He just had something he had to take care of first."

"Thank you, Mr. Williams," she replied softly. "Perhaps the Captain will bring good news."

"Perhaps so, Ma'am. But you should rest," he added, and looked almost embarrassed.

Sam felt the distinctive sensation of a gun barrel pressed against his back.

"Don't move or I'll shoot."

* * *

_Pardon the brevity. Real life intruding, etc… Stay tuned. More tomorrow._


	4. Chapter 4

**Looks Like Loss**

_Thanks so much for the reviews! You're all sweetie pies._

Chapter Four

* * *

Sam held very still. He usually tried to hold very still when he had a gun pointed at him.

The pressure of the gun held against his back abruptly left and he heard the man back away slowly. Sam didn't turn around, however, since he was still holding his sawed-off shotgun and didn't know how the man would react to it. At the same instant, the soldier, the woman and the campfire all flickered once and disappeared. Must be dawn, Sam thought absently.

"All right... You two... Turn around real slow. I'd better not see a twitch out of either one of you."

They both turned very slowly to see a fiftyish looking man wearing a police uniform. He had a huge flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other, still aimed at them.

"Are you boys really this stupid?"

"Is that a rhetorical question or are you expecting an outright denial?" Dean asked.

"I guess that answers my question," the officer stated. He took another step back from them and put his gun away. "You two ghostbusters wandering around in the middle of my crime scene in the middle of the night... yeah, I'm gonna go with dumb as a box of rocks..."

"How do you..."

"Son, did I say you could talk?" the officer said, his voice barely a growl.

"No, sir," Dean replied, his tone clipped. Sam could see him responding to the man's authority, which was interesting in and of itself. Something in the man's tone must remind him of their dad. Thinking about their father was so painful though, it was like a physical ache and Sam pushed the thought aside.

"I know who you are because I'm the Sheriff. You're not from here. You two drove into town in the most conspicuous vehicle I can think of and you both look like you haven't seen an iron in years. You think every nosy woman in this town didn't call me to tell me you were here?"

"Sir, we're just trying to help. We..."

Another glare from the Sheriff stopped him. "Your jaw is moving again, son."

Dean shifted from one foot to the other, much as he had when he was a little boy being taken to task.

"Now," the Sheriff said, looking from one of them to the other. "I'm not seeing the completely illegal weapons you boys are holding. Cause if I saw them, I would have to arrest you. And if I arrested you, I'd have to keep you here in town. And do you know where I don't want you?"

"In your town," Sam said with a sigh.

"I see we've found the brains of this operation," the Sheriff nodded. "See if you can do something about your pal there."

"Lost cause," Sam snorted. "I've been trying for years."

"Hey! Where do you…"

"Son, your lips are flapping," the Sheriff said. "Until you get some more sense, knock it off."

Dean stopped talking though Sam could tell he was about ready to explode. Sam also had the distinct impression the Sheriff was enjoying baiting his brother.

"Now... I know who you are, and what you came here to do..."

"My brother was serious, sir," Sam said putting all the sincerity he could into his voice. "We're not here to cause you problems. We just want to help."

"I don't care," the officer said plainly. "You thought you could come into my town, do a little mumbo jumbo dance and make a few dollars off these people. Well, they're my people and I don't like it. You don't get to be Sheriff in this town and not know how to deal with," he paused momentarily, "_special_ problems like this. We've been dealing with them since before you were born."

"You know about the ghosts?" Dean asked, his voice awestruck.

"Unless we've been having a civil war reenactment in this yard for the past two months," the man said wryly. "Now, I'm going to walk you boys to your car," he stepped to the side for them to walk ahead of him. "I'm going to wait for you to get in it and then I'm going to escort you to the county line."

"Our stuff," Dean said. "It's in the house."

"I'll mail it to you." The Sheriff gestured for them to get moving.

Dean led the way, biting his tongue, Sam knew. They had no idea how far from the house they had come in the darkness, but the sun was coming up now and they could dimly see their surroundings.

It took several minutes to walk back through the heavy trees and undergrowth, finally coming to what looked like a path leading up to the house. They stepped out onto the lawn to find the sun was shining brightly. It just hadn't been able to make its way through the jungle-like trees.

Dean led the way around the house to the road where the car was still parked. Sam could hear him mumbling under his breath and was not looking forward to the tirade he knew was coming once they were out of earshot of the Sheriff. Sam's head was pounding like he wouldn't have believed possible and he was now sweaty and bug-bitten. All he wanted was a shower, a truckload of aspirin and some peace and quiet.

"Give me the keys, Dean."

"What? Why?" Dean nearly snarled.

"Cause if I let you drive, we'll be doing eighty by the time we hit the city limits and you'll get us a ticket."

"I'd listen to him," the Sheriff said coolly. "He's the only one in this outfit that has a lick of sense, I'm thinking."

Dean angrily took the keys out of his pocket and threw them. Sam barely caught the keys and he glared at his brother. Dean ignored him, however, and stepped off the curb into the street, but nearly stumbled, stifling a sharp cry.

"Dean?" Sam asked uncertainly. His brother's face was suddenly strained, but carefully blanked of emotion. He saw Dean rub his thigh as he'd seen him do several times since the night before.

"It's nothing," Dean said, pursing his lips. "Must've pulled a muscle last night."

"You sure?"

"Is there a problem, gentlemen?" The sheriff had moved to his patrol car, parked directly behind them.

Sam just glanced at Dean who ignored them both. He walked around the front of the car, his limp suddenly very pronounced, and got into the car, slamming the door behind him.

"No problem," Sam said to the officer. "We're leaving."

The Sheriff looked at him suspiciously, but nodded and got in his car. He was serious about following them to the county line, Sam guessed. He looked into the car to see Dean was scowling, his eyes staring at nothing in particular.

Sam got into the driver's seat and angrily slammed the door as Dean had done. "What's got into you?"

"Just go," Dean said through clenched teeth. "Idiot cop... Serve him right if he gets killed."

Sam shook his head and started the car. Normally the sound itself was soothing to his brother, but for some reason, it only seemed to exacerbate Dean's anger. Sam heard a sharp hitch in his breathing and watched as his brother dug his fingers into the leg that was bothering him.

With a touch of uneasiness, Sam put the car in gear and pulled out into the roadway. He heard Dean make an odd choking sound and took a quick glance at him out of the corner of his eye.

"You ok?"

"I..." he looked out the window, purposely not allowing Sam to see his face.

"Dean?" Sam turned off the road the house was on and pulled out onto the main street to head out of town.

"I'm not sure."

"What do you mean you're not sure?"

Dean had half turned back to him and Sam could see that sweat had popped out on his brother's forehead. His entire body was tense, as if he was guarding against the car's jostling.

Sam continued to drive, keeping one eye on the road and the other on Dean who was looking worse by the second, until finally he bent over and wrapped his arms protectively around his leg.

"STOP!" Dean screamed.

Sam nearly drove off the road at the sudden outburst. He slammed on the brakes and jerked the car to the side of the road.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

"Just go back," Dean bit out, still hunched over, grasping his leg. "Worse... getting worse the farther you go."

"Dean, I..."

"What are you two doing now?" the Sheriff said, appearing at the driver side window.

Sam barely looked at him, trying to decide whether to ignore the cop and run for it or to ignore the cop and take Dean right back to the house. Dean whimpered, curling into himself. Sam put a hand against his back, clueless as to how to help him or soothe him.

"Dean, tell me what's wrong," he pleaded.

The Sheriff bent down farther to look into the vehicle. He took one look at Dean and said, "Follow me. I'll take you to the hospital."

Left with no other choice, Sam complied. He turned the car around to head back the way they had come. Almost immediately, Dean sighed. The farther Sam drove back into town, the better Dean's breathing became. It slowed, steadied, but Dean was still hunched over, protecting his leg.

The sheriff had his lights on and the trip to the tiny hospital only took a few minutes. There were employees waiting outside the ER entrance when they arrived and Sam supposed the Sheriff had radioed ahead. In only a few seconds, Dean was hustled inside, still clutching at his injured limb.

The Sheriff drove away, apparently having better things to do. Murders and whatnot. Sam parked the car and hurried inside, completely baffled. Dean's leg had been badly injured twice in the past year, the same leg as rotten luck would have it. Both times had required hospitalization. Dean being Dean, he had checking himself out early against doctor's orders, but nevertheless, he had healed as well as a young, strong man could. Or so Sam had thought. Dean had been careful not to strain himself unnecessarily at first, but recently it hadn't even been an issue.

It was a tiny hospital. The entire ER was made up of a waiting room and two small treatment rooms consisting of a partition and drapes that could be pulled across the front.

Dean was lying on a gurney in the first room, where the drapes were partially closed. From the waiting room, Sam watched as a doctor walked into the room and immediately stopped in the doorway. He stayed there immobile for just a second, long enough for Sam to notice the odd hesitation, and then turned back and motioned for a nurse. They passed several furtive words back and forth, then the nurse nodded and walked back the other way out of Sam's line of sight.

Sam grit his teeth when he heard a stifled cry of pain come from inside the small treatment room. His hands were white knuckled where he was holding onto the chair's arms and Sam fought not to jump out of the chair and order the doctor to get his butt in the room and help his brother.

The nurse came hustling back and then she and the doctor disappeared inside the room, pulling the drape across the front and blocking them all from view.

Sam fidgeted nervously, finally standing and pacing back and forth until he thought he would wear a rut in the floor. He's spent too many days and nights doing exactly this, and he imagined Dean could say the same. It never got any easier though.

He heard several more sounds from inside the room, and cringed, hardly able to bear to hear his brother hurting so badly. Finally after what felt like ages, watching the nurse come and go countless times, watching the doctor come and go several times, even watching Dean being wheeled out once and then brought back, the doctor reappeared and motioned toward him.

Sam bolted out of his seat, wanting to see his brother like he'd wanted few things in his life. The doctor pulled the curtain back and to his surprise Sam saw Dean, fully dressed, sitting up on the gurney. He looked beyond exhausted, every muscle tense. His face was tight, but carefully blank and Sam frowned fiercely knowing his brother was still in pain.

"Dean, are you ok?" Sam asked softly. His heart clenched painfully when Dean only nodded. He couldn't speak to give a denial. Not good. Dean not talking was like rain refusing to fall.

"What wrong with him? Why is his leg hurting so much?" Sam addressed the doctor rather than pressing Dean for answers.

"Nothing, as far as we can tell," the doctor answered. And that idea clearly annoyed him. "You can take your brother home. We've given him some pain medication, but other than that there's not much we can do."

"You're going to release him and you don't know what's wrong?" Sam asked angrily.

"I've already discussed this with your brother," the doctor said testily. "The x-rays are fine... there are no clotting problems... no blockages… We're still waiting on some results from the lab, but the results we already have show no problems. We would like to admit him so we can do more extensive testing, but your brother won't allow it." The doctor didn't look amused about that either.

"Dean, please," Sam said turning back to his brother. "Let them keep you. You need help."

Dean kept his mouth firmly closed, but shook his head in the negative. He was looking at Sam though, as if trying to say something. 'Trust me,' those eyes said.

"Dean…" Sam worriedly shook his head.

"I _have_ to get out of here," Dean finally said through clenched teeth. "Back to the house."

"You're staying at Ravenwood?" the doctor asked and Sam nodded, hoping the Sheriff didn't try to run them off again. "All right. I'll call you there as soon as I have the results from the rest of the tests... If I find anything... odd... I want you to bring your brother back here as fast as you can."

Sam could hear the real worry in the doctor's tone. "Why? What do you think it is?"

The doctor brushed a hand through his hair in frustration. "I don't know... all the tests have come back negative and there's no sign of necrosis... no sign of infection or swelling even... No…"

"Tell him, doc," Dean ordered.

The doctor looked up, as if he'd momentarily let his mind wander away from them. "It's just... when I first came in..."

"I saw you hesitate in the doorway," Sam said.

"When I walked in... The smell..." the doctor frowned. "I could have sworn it was gangrene."

* * *

_See? No cliffhanger… Thought I'd be nice today… No promises about tomorrow though!_


	5. Chapter 5

**Looks Like Loss**

_Thanks so much for the reviews. Hopefully, this chapter will give you a few answers._

Chapter Five

* * *

"You wanna tell me what's going on?" Sam asked once Dean was settled back in the passenger seat of the car. His brother either had some idea he wasn't letting him in on or the pain was making him mental.

"Not right now," Dean said through clenched teeth.

"Come on, Dean! Why wouldn't you let them keep you?" Sam urged. He pulled out of the hospital parking lot and merged with the traffic.

Dean hissed audibly and Sam could see him fighting not to curl over again protecting his leg. Instead, he angrily laid his head back against the seat, one hand spread out over the top of his thigh, kneading the muscle in a vain attempt to relieve the pain.

"Did you take one of the pills they gave you?"

"Please, Sam. Not now," Dean snapped, his voice tight. "Just get me back to the house!"

Ignoring lights, stop signs and speed limit signs, Sam flew down the road. He knew the car's movement was hurting his brother, but chose to get it over with as quickly as possible. In only a few minutes, he roared up in front of Ravenwood.

Hardly before he had even managed to get the car stopped, Dean had the door open and tumbled out clumsily. Crawling on hands and knees, he crossed the sidewalk and fell face first into the grass. Sam threw the car in park and jumped out, running around and kneeling beside Dean whose shoulders were shaking with emotion.

Sam laid his hand against Dean's back, unsure of whether to try and turn him over or not. Deciding for him, Dean rolled onto his back. He let out a bark of laughter that so surprised Sam he fell back, landing hard on the grass.

Dean laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks. He lay flat on his back, the near hysterical laughter frightening in its intensity.

"Gone," he said, gasping as the laughter began to fade. "All gone."

"What?" Sam asked, sitting forward again to kneel beside his brother.

"Pain... all gone..." Dean said, calming. He brought his hands up to his ribs as if they were now hurting from the overexertion. "The second I got back on the property. Just had to get back here."

"Try that again?"

"It got worse the farther we went," Dean explained, "but it was better when we were going to the hospital. It's closer to the house."

"Are you kidding?" Sam asked, horrified.

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" Dean asked, still breathing heavily, staring up at the late afternoon sky. He struggled to sit up, only making it part way, and braced his arms behind him on the ground. "Last night... the first ghost... it started in the leg I hurt before and then spread."

"You're saying the ghost did this."

Dean nodded. "I told you the soldier guy sort of reached out for me. He was limping like he was injured. When the doctor mentioned gangrene, I remembered the smell last night."

"He said something about following orders, but he wasn't happy about it. So he… the soldier was ordered to hurt you as a warning…" Sam frowned in thought. "But if the whole idea was to scare us off, then why this… infection, or whatever you want to call it. It won't let you leave."

"Maybe it was just supposed to hurt. This was just a… side effect. I don't know," Dean closed his eyes and let his head fall back tiredly. "Maybe it's because I was already hurt." He took in a long, slow breath and Sam could see the pleasure he took in it. Dean hadn't been able to take in a deep breath all day he'd been hurting so badly.

"Your leg was hurting already though wasn't it?" Sam frowned. "When we went into the woods last night, it was bothering you."

"Some," was all Dean answered.

"And you were going to tell me when?"

"Hmmm…" Dean said thoughtfully, his head still leaning back, soaking in the sunshine. "I think maybe never."

"I can't help if you don't talk to me," Sam said testily.

Dean snorted. "We're men. We don't talk. Except Dr. Phil. That dude can talk 'til the cows come home."

"You're not helping yourself here," Sam observed.

"Good grief," Dean said, his eyes still closed. "You know how this works. I get in too deep, cause you lots of grief and then we fix it. Why change a perfectly good system?"

Sam sighed. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"I'm always serious," Dean replied, a huge Cheshire Cat grin spreading across his face.

Sam glared at him, but since his brother still wasn't looking at him it did little good. "Ok… So your leg was already hurting last night. Any idea why it was worse when we left?"

Dean shrugged. "This place is all that's keeping the soldier 'alive'. Apparently it didn't like me leaving. Just what we needed, huh? Ghost bacteria."

"So what do we do about it?" Sam asked.

Dean finally lifted his head and opened his eyes again to look at him. "I hate to say it... But we need to talk to the Sheriff. And we need to do it before nightfall."

Sam tried not to laugh at the look of distaste on his brother's face. He looked like someone had just asked him to watch the Lawrence Welk show. Maybe an entire Lawrence Welk Christmas Special.

* * *

"Evening, Sheriff," Dean said mildly.

He and Sam were sitting on the rear gallery of the mansion. Dean was in a chaise longue where Sam had left him to doze after they'd both taken quick showers. Sam sat beside him in a rocker sipping the iced tea Mrs. Pruett had brought for them.

She had worriedly fussed over Dean, who had borne it manfully, while Sam fought not to laugh. Finally, seeing his exhaustion, she had left him to rest, while promising to go inside and ask the Sheriff to stop by.

"How are you feeling, son?" the older man asked.

"Better," Dean replied gruffly. "Thanks." He grunted as he sat forward and swung his legs over the side so he could face the policeman. He wasn't saying anything, but Sam knew his leg was still bothering him. It was just at a manageable level now that they were back. "Sir, if you'll have a seat, we need to talk."

The man narrowed his eyes, but nodded. He pulled another rocker around so he could face both of them and sat down.

"We need your help," Sam started. "Dean here," he gestured toward his brother, "can't leave the property until we get this resolved."

"Come again?" the officer raised his eyebrows.

"Dean was... attacked... last night in our room."

"The Captain?"

"Who?"

"The old highwayman... carries an ancient looking pistol," he specified.

"No, not him," Sam shook his head. "Though he fired a warning shot at us." He pushed his hair back far enough so the Sheriff could see the injury. "We think it was an injured soldier. He... infected Dean somehow and the injury is tied to this place. What you saw earlier, it'll happen again if we try to leave."

"Why would the soldier do that?" the Sheriff frowned.

"We think it was an accident. He was just supposed to hurt me… scare us off," Dean said.

"But Dean's injury must be similar," Sam said. "Some sort of sympathetic infection."

The sheriff sighed and sat back in his chair, looking suddenly exhausted. "As if this mess needed to get any worse."

"Why don't you fill us in?" Sam urged. "You might be surprised what we know about ghost problems."

The Sheriff sighed again, his gaze traveling from one brother to the other and then back again, deciding whether or not to tell them anything.

"We didn't come here to con these people," Dean added. "We've been doing this a long time."

The officer hesitated for several more seconds, then finally nodded. "This started a couple of months ago when they began construction on a new home on the back edge of the Pruetts land. Geoff let them park some of their equipment in the back. There was a small fire and some of the trees were scorched. Nobody thought anything of it and then the next night a local man who always walks his dog past the area managed to get himself killed and left on the edge of the property."

"Killed how?"

"Gunshot. He was missing his wedding ring. We put it down to a robbery gone bad. Then the coroner took a look. Gunshot wound, but no bullet when there should have been one. Same thing happened two weeks later."

"And?"

"And this land used to be an almost constant problem, though it's been dormant for years. It's part of my duties as Sheriff to keep an eye out for things like this. I've been trying to figure out how to stop it..."

"Why did you call him the Captain?" Sam asked.

"We've gotten rid of most of them, but your injured soldier… he's not the only one in the woods at night. The robber fella… he's apparently acting as their commanding officer. I think the soldiers believe the battle's still going on."

"Why steal the wedding ring?" Sam wondered aloud.

"I don't know. The people killed have all been men, nothing missing but their wedding rings."

"Who's the woman?" Dean asked.

"Woman?"

"There was a woman last night, sitting on a tree stump," Dean assured him.

The Sheriff scowled. "I don't know about her."

"Wonderful," Dean sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "And this all started because some trees caught fire?"

"As far as I can tell."

Dean stood up, stepped off the porch and began pacing back and forth. "Is there anything special about the trees?" The sheriff only shrugged and Dean huffed in frustration. "We'll have to go take a look, Sam."

Sam heard the report of a rifle mere seconds before Dean crumpled to the ground. And another, just seconds before pain seared through his side. He threw himself behind one of the massive pillars lining the rear gallery of the house, listening as more shots broke out windows and chipped plaster. Ignoring the feel of blood beginning to soak through his shirt, he looked to see that the Sheriff was standing behind the next pillar over, his gun drawn.

"Don't you dare!" Sam shouted. "That thing won't do any good against the ghosts and you might hit Dean!"

"Want to take a look at our camp, do you?" Sam heard. He peeked out from behind the pillar. Dean was lying on his back. He groaned and tried to turn onto his side. "Spying for Johnny Reb, are you?" One of the soldiers viciously kicked him in the face. Dean fell back and remained unmoving.

The three Union uniformed soldiers moved farther onto the lawn to surround him. Night had fallen, but the light coming from the house still glinted off the barrel of the one rifle pointed at Dean. The other two were pointed toward the porch and Sam snapped his head back to keep it from being shot off.

"You two just keep yourselves where you are!" one of the soldiers shouted. "Dobbs, grab our would-be spy… We'll see what the Captain wants to do with him."

Sam watched as one of the soldiers grabbed a still unconscious Dean by the scruff of his neck and dragged him back into the trees. The other two soldiers followed him until they too disappeared from view.

The Sheriff turned to Sam and sighed. "Son, I think your brother just became a POW."

* * *

_Don't go anywhere… Tomorrow is the big showdown._


	6. Chapter 6

**Looks Like Loss**

_Thank you kindly for the reviews. Now let me apologize (profusely) right up front. This chapter got so darn long, I'm going to have to split it in two. So many ghosts… so little time… This is more the intro to the showdown. (Please hold all tomato throwing - It'll mess up my keyboard and then you'll never get the end.)_

Chapter Six

* * *

Dean woke slowly, hearing sounds he only associated with camping. The clink of metal plates and cups, a campfire, insects… it all floated to him through a haze. His head hurt so badly, he could hardly think. He knew there was a reason it hurt, but he couldn't quite remember.

Oh yeah. One of the jerks had kicked him. That would explain the blood on his face.

Dean tried to turn onto his side and screaming pain shot through his leg. No, the other leg. Laughter bubbled up from his chest and he couldn't help it as it spilled out.

"What's so funny, Johnny?"

Dean grimaced in pain, still laughing, he suspected to keep from sobbing. "You stupid bastards shot the wrong leg! Ghosts are supposed to try and rip off the other one!"

"Ignore him," a different soldier said. "He's not thinking right."

"Oh, I'm thinking fine," Dean snapped. "I'm just laughing to keep from being seriously pissed off."

"Dobbs, keep him quiet. There's a lady present who doesn't need to listen to his filth."

"As you were, Dobbs," Dean blindly held up a hand. "I'd like to keep my nose intact, thanks."

Dean opened his eyes to see that he was lying beside a small campfire. A handful of soldiers were sitting on the opposite side of the fire. Several feet away, the woman they'd seen the night before was sitting on the tree stump again, watching him fearfully. This time, however, she was facing him and Dean could see that she was _extremely_ pregnant.

"I'm sorry," he said gently. Dean had rules. Don't let the bad guys win and don't scare the ladies... Even dead ones when they were looking at him like _he_ was the bad guy.

She nodded, protectively setting her hands over her swollen belly, and Dean knew she had to be the woman who had died in childbirth. She was wearing a full length dress and had her hair pulled back tightly in a bun. She couldn't be more than seventeen or eighteen, he guessed, a perfectly acceptable age to be married and pregnant 200 years ago. To Dean's eyes though, she looked hardly more than a frightened child herself.

Dean struggled to a sitting position. He'd already been exhausted and now these pinheads had screwed up his good leg. Sheer luck too, since they'd been randomly shooting at the house where the Sheriff had been sitting and…

"Sam!" Dean surprised himself by saying it out loud.

"Shut your mouth, Johnny."

Dean looked to see who was giving the orders. He was a small, dark-haired man with a bushy mustache. "My name is Dean. Dean Winchester," he said, shooting the man a quelling glance.

"Fine, Mr. Winchester," the man replied, matching him glare for glare. "Now why don't you be quiet and stop bothering Mrs. Martin."

Dean sighed, not even having the energy to taunt properly. _There is no joy in Mudville_...

He looked to his other side and nearly jumped to find a man sitting only a foot away, his back to a tree trunk. A second later, Dean noticed the unbelievable stench. It was the soldier who had attacked him the night before. As suspected, the man's leg was injured and gangrene had set in. The wound was a stinking, seeping mess as the soldier's leg tried to rot despite being still attached. He was a dead man... and he'd been both dead and dying for 150 years give or take.

"You!" Dean hissed. "This is all your fault!" If the guy didn't look so miserable already, Dean would kick the crap out of him on general principle.

"Keep your voice down," the man whispered. "They're just waiting for the Captain to get back and then they're going to shoot you."

"Why do you care?" Dean replied, keeping his voice low.

"I was following orders. A soldier has to follow orders."

"You mean why you attacked me," Dean said, wanting clarification.

"Yes, but… I don't think it was right," the man said, worriedly eyeing the other men. His voice dropped even lower. "I remember the Captain... Captain wouldn't have ordered me to do that. None of this is right. This man... he's not... I don't believe he is even an officer."

"Well ya got that right," Dean muttered.

"But the others… they are so sure… And a soldier has to follow orders. This is war. You… you understand?"

Dean nodded, understanding with every fiber of his being. Not just because their father had beaten it into their heads from the time they were children, but because he honestly understood. How many things had he done because he had to, despite his misgivings? Dad had told him to go and he'd hurried as fast as his feet could carry him. He'd learned very early not to show any hesitation. It was a war they were fighting and his life had depended on following orders without question.

And now… Without Dad… He felt like a soldier without his General.

But lives still depended on him. Sam's life, the people they were protecting, whether they realized it or not, they were relying on him to be prepared, disciplined, to have everything in order.

Yeah, he understood.

"There is something wrong with all of this," the soldier said, still troubled.

"You're right. But why are you telling me?"

"I was at the house. I heard the man who owns this land talking," he whispered conspiratorially. "He said you were coming to stop us..." The wounded man frowned fiercely, the ghost's image flickering as he became more agitated. "I know all of this is wrong somehow. I just can't quite put my finger on it. The Captain seemed worried about you. He sent me to scare you off... but I wanted to talk to you."

"Talk to me?" Dean hissed angrily. "You nearly killed me!"

"What? I..." He frowned again, and Dean could see the confusion. The problem with ghosts was that they didn't always understand what was actually going on around them. They weren't real people. They were instinctual things. The 'infection' had been an unfortunate side-effect of the contact.

"_ATTENTION_!"

With the exception of the wounded man, the soldiers around him immediately stood and saluted. Dean looked up to see a man approaching through the trees. Except he wasn't dead. And he looked a lot like the Sheriff.

"Gentlemen, I'm General Kent. I've brought news and I need you to listen."

Yup, Dean thought. It was the Sheriff. The soldiers were all standing at attention though, like Patton had just walked into camp. Apparently a uniform with some shiny buttons was enough for the ghosts. The Sheriff pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and cleared his throat to read.

"Dated June 2nd, 1865. Following the surrender of General Lee and the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia on April 9th, General Smith has surrendered to Major General Canby. You are hereby ordered to cease all hostilities..."

"We can go home?" one of the soldiers cut him off in mid-sentence. The man then blinked, stuttering. "F-Forgive me, General... I... I..."

"It's all right, son," the Sheriff said kindly. "That's exactly what this means. You can go home. It's over."

Murmuring broke out among the tiny group of soldiers, happy, awed, disbelieving, one of the men broke down in tears. Finally, the man with the bushy mustache stepped forward. "Does the Captain know, sir?"

"Yes, he does. He's spreading the word."

"We can go home?" the same soldier asked again.

"Yes, you can," the Sheriff said gently. "You can all go home." The ghost who'd asked the question began to fade as did two of the others. "It's over, men. It's all over. I know how tired you are. I know how hard you've fought. But you can rest now. The war is over. You can go home."

As he continued to speak, the other soldiers also began to fade, slowly dissolving away into the darkness. Dean looked to his side to see that the wounded soldier was the only one unaffected.

"Is this right?" he said, his expression all confusion. "It's over? I... the Captain... This isn't right."

"The General and I will take care of the Captain," Dean assured him. "You're injured. You need to rest."

"You will see to it?" the man asked.

"I will," Dean repeated.

"My leg," he said, tears streaming down his face. "I don't want to lose it. You won't let them take it if I fall asleep? If I lose it…"

"Rest now," the 'General' said, stepping toward them. "Just rest."

The wounded soldier smiled and laid his head back against the tree behind him. "Thank you, Sir. Leg hurts... So tired..." He slowly began to fade. "So tired... all over now..." and he was gone. Dean immediately felt the last bit of tension in his 'infected' leg ease.

The Sheriff stepped toward Dean and put a hand on his shoulder. "You doing all right, son? You do seem to get knocked around a good bit."

Dean gave a short laugh, though there was no real humor in it, especially since it made his head hurt worse. "Where's Sam? Is he ok?"

"He's fine. They nicked him, but he refused to see a doctor until we found you. We split up to look. He's wandering around here somewhere."

"You just happen to carry troop orders on you all the time?"

The Sheriff snorted, holding up the piece of paper. "This is my grocery list. All of my officers know what to do though. This whole area was a battlefield. We all run into a lost soldier from time to time. I've got to admit, this is the first time I've ever had to give orders to Yankees. It's usually us stubborn Southern boys wandering around here."

"Yeah, that was an interesting method... I usually just shoot 'em," Dean observed dryly.

"They're soldiers," the Sheriff shrugged. "They accept their orders."

"Know all about that," Dean sighed. He groaned, struggling to his feet. Of all the freaking luck, Dean thought, hissing as he put weight on his leg. He was tired of limping into battle. It kind of ruined the image when you had to say, 'Hold on Mr. Bad Guy or I'll hit you with my crutch.'

Dean looked up and the Sheriff turned hearing someone moving quickly through the underbrush. The Sheriff raised his gun and held it steady.

"Don't shoot! It's just me."

"Sam!" Dean watched his brother as he walked into the light. He was protecting his side and Dean could see the seeping blood stain running down and staining his jeans. "Are you ok?"

"I'm fine," Sam said with only a slight grimace. "You?"

"Yeah, me too."

"Are you two nuts? We need to get you boys to a doctor," the Sheriff said.

"Hey, Mr. Obvious?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "What part of 'I'm fine' don't you get? It's guy speak for 'I might be dying'."

The Sheriff just shook his head. "Sorry. Forgot my Man Code Book there for a second."

"Come on," Sam urged. "Let's get out of here."

Dean heard a near whimper off to his left and turned. "Mrs. Martin!" He'd completely forgotten about her.

She was bent over, backing away from them, one hand protectively wrapped around her stomach, her long dress dragging the ground. Her face suddenly creased with pain and she clutched at her belly.

"Ok… I think this may be the appropriate time for us all to decide what we know about 'birthin' babies'," Dean said, wide-eyed.

* * *

_Once again, so sorry I had to split this… It was either wait until tomorrow and post it all or give you half of it tonight… Hope this will hold you until then._


	7. Chapter 7

**Looks Like Loss**

_Thanks so much for the added patience. Here's the second half. Hope you like it!_

Chapter Seven

* * *

Dean heard a near whimper off to his left and turned. "Mrs. Martin!" He'd completely forgotten about her.

She was bent over, backing away from them, one hand protectively wrapped around her stomach, her long dress dragging the ground. Her face suddenly creased with pain and she clutched at her belly.

"Ok… I think this may be the appropriate time for us all to decide what we know about 'birthin' babies'," Dean said, wide-eyed.

"Move away from her!"

All three men turned around to see their very unfriendly neighborhood bandit standing behind them, his ancient looking pistol steadily aimed in their direction.

"Have you found my husband?" the woman asked him, her voice pleading.

"I told the men to watch you! Where are they?" he shouted angrily. "They were supposed to protect you while I was gone!"

Dean instinctively moved toward the woman, placing himself between her and the highwayman until he had a better grasp on the situation. He didn't really know what he could do since he wasn't armed and they were both ghosts anyway, but it was the principle of the thing.

"_Please_," the woman begged, still clutching at her swollen abdomen. "Did you find my husband? You said you would find him."

The bandit man frowned at Dean's intervention and moved to the side so that he could see her again. "I did. But I'm afraid he was gravely wounded when I found him. It seems he was attacked on the road and I regret to say that he died of his wounds."

The woman sobbed, bringing a hand up to cover her mouth. She crumpled to the ground, her skirts pooling around her.

"He asked me to give you his ring," the man said, starting to move toward her.

"Stay back," Dean ordered. Now that was cold. Killing a man so you could get at the 'widow'? No wonder the guy's real wife had wasted him.

"Stay away from me!" the woman shrieked. "You're lying! He's not dead! He promised me he would be here before the baby comes!"

The man looked stricken, watching her cower away from him, then fury clouded his face. "I have looked after you! I have cared for you, protected you! Why do you not see that?"

"Get away!" the woman screamed. "My husband promised he would be here when the time came. My husband always keeps his promises! How dare you say differently?"

"I have given you proof of his death, woman! You have no one left to turn to, but me," the man shouted. "I have provided for you, _loved_ you… And now you turn on me like this? _Betray_ me like this!"

"Dude, your issues are showing," Dean muttered. "She's not your wife."

The man stepped toward the woman, all his attention and the gun now aimed at her. "You would be so disloyal after all I have done for you?"

"Please," Mrs. Martin said, weeping openly. "Just leave me be! My husband promised he would return."

"He's dead! I have brought his ring as proof!"

"My husband is the Sheriff!" she screamed through her tears. "He will kill you for trying to deceive me like this!"

"_What have you done, Joseph_?"

All eyes turned as a woman walked out of the trees into the small clearing. She was tiny, barely four and a half feet tall, wearing a rough-sewn skirt and shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a long braid running down her back.

"Agatha," the highwayman said, horrified. "She… this is… not how it looks."

The wife. Crap, crap, _crap_. They'd completely ignored the highwayman's wife. The woman had slit her own husband's throat to protect her home and they'd ignored her. Too many freaking ghosts. She'd gotten lost in the shuffle of suspects.

Dean thought frantically trying to remember what the Pruetts had told them and that gave him a sum total of… not much. A posse had been closing in, hot on her husband's heels. She had slit his throat, ditched the body. Nothing after that. The land had been seized by the government and no one knew what had happened to her.

The robber baron's wife stepped farther into the clearing, furious eyes glued to her husband. "You bring these people _here_? Your whore? To our _home_?"

There was something in her manner, something positively fierce that made Dean move closer to the oblivious woman still kneeling on the ground behind him. He was pretty sure Agatha was pissed at her would-be two-timing husband who'd brought the law down on her again. Dean just wasn't sure that she wasn't going to go after the rest of them next.

"This land is my home, Joseph," she eyed him. The woman began to circle, like a predator toying with its prey, walking around her husband. "You and your idiot friends can do whatever you like. But we had an understanding. You _would not_ bring it to my doorstep. _I thought you understood that_." Her eyes were narrowed and her voice was low, menacing.

Dean was pretty sure that if he'd been married to that, he'd have made pretty freaking certain to remember it.

Without preamble, she sprang at her husband. Before he could even move, she jabbed a thumb into his eye and he fell to the ground screaming, dropping his pistol to grasp at his face.

His wife turned, her bloodied hand pointing at Dean. "You," she said, ignoring the man who lay behind her sobbing, rocking back and forth, clutching at his mutilated socket. "You have the _nerve_ to come here."

"Come again?" Dean asked warily, forcing himself to drag his eyes away from the downed man.

"I warned you when you brought the papers that I would not leave here," she spat.

"Papers?"

"I don't have the money for the taxes yet!" she said angrily, "but I will. You think you can seize my property? This land is _mine_. Mine and mine _alone_."

"She thinks you're the Sheriff," the current Sheriff whispered in horror. "He would have been the only official around here then if the land was to be seized."

"Where would she get that idea?" Dean demanded. "You're the one with the shiny buttons!"

"Probably because _you _are the one protecting the man's wife like she's yours," the man answered.

"What?" Dean asked no one in particular. "A guy can't protect random pregnant ghost chicks now?"

"I won't let you take my land!" Agatha screamed, still pointing her gore-covered hand at him.

Dean looked at the bandit's wife at a complete loss. She was glaring at him like she could happily rip his head off and feed it to the pigs. "Ma'am, I'm sure we can work something out," he said, "as long as your credit score is decent, I mean."

"Dean!"

He couldn't help a small grin at Sam's dismayed outburst, but quickly sobered as the ugly look on the ghost's face twisted in sheer rage.

"I've taken care of it. I always do," Agatha said furiously. "No one will inherit this land. The trollop you're protecting? I put something in her food. She's already dead and she doesn't know it. There will be no child to inherit. The boy who fell over the gallery railing? The man who was shot at the gates? That was my doing. I even smothered that old woman who had decided to sell this place. It is _mine_."

She looked behind her to her husband still sobbing where he lay in the dirt. "_You_… you brought these people here… brought the Sheriff down on us." She pulled a knife from her waistband, slipping it out of its leather sheath. "I will not lose my home because of you."

In only a second, a rough, jagged slash appeared across the highwayman's neck. He began to gurgle and choke, grasping at his throat, his damaged eye forgotten.

"How could you?" he said, blood bubbling through his lips. "I loved you."

"Sam?" Dean said lowly.

"Yeah?"

"Is there a reason you haven't shot her yet?"

The woman turned at the words, her face contorted with anger. "I will kill you all before I let you take my land from me!"

The Sheriff drew his gun and fired to no effect as she barreled toward them, knife in hand.

"Sam, that's your cue!" Dean shouted.

"I don't have a gun, Dean!"

Dean braced himself for the assault and nearly had a heart attack at the booming sound of a shotgun being discharged within only a foot of him.

Geoff Pruett stepped farther around him, firing again, and the ghost disappeared in a flash of rock salt. "We'll see who owns what," he said, breathing heavily as if he'd run a race.

"She… dead?" the highwayman gasped. He was now lying flat on his back, barely aware of his surroundings.

"Yup," Dean said. Whether she could be made to stay that way was another matter all together.

"_Good_," the man said. He slumped as his non-existent muscles relaxed and then he disappeared, fading into the dirt.

The Sheriff turned to the newest arrival. "Now that is what I call excellent timing, Geoff."

Dean, however, turned on his brother. "What were you thinking coming out here unarmed?" he shouted.

"I thought I had to get you back before they formed a firing squad!" Sam shot back. "I sent Geoff to get the shotguns. He was right behind us!"

"He's a civilian!"

"A civilian who saved your POW ass!" Sam shouted back.

Dean blinked, suddenly realizing something. He turned to face Mr. Pruett and to his everlasting horror saw the unimaginable. Marigold. _His_ Marigold. In Geoff Pruett's hands.

"You're holding M… my shotgun."

Mr. Pruett nodded. "It's a good weapon."

"I know," Dean said frowning. "You're still holding my shotgun."

The woman behind them screamed in agony. Setting aside his apparent separation anxiety, which he really didn't want to get into right now, Dean knelt beside her. He ignored the pain that shot up his leg, more concerned with the woman, completely at a loss as to how to help her. What could you do for a pregnant ghost? The thought of shooting her seemed beyond wrong.

"Get away!" she shouted, scooting until her back was against the tree stump she'd been sitting on. "Leave me alone!"

Dean turned to the others and waved them back. He then moved forward to kneel beside her again.

"Shhhh..." he said gently. "It's all right now. We're not going to hurt you. We're here to help you."

"Why hasn't he come?" she whispered sadly, tears falling in great drops. "I'm so alone here."

"Sometimes..." Dean cleared his throat uncomfortably, "Sometimes... even the people we love... they have to leave us."

Mom. Sam. Dad.

His heart constricted painfully at his own words, words he'd told himself so often. The words were seared into his heart, his brain. He'd ordered himself to believe those words. He was a soldier and he obeyed orders. If he could only help her to believe them too.

The young woman's glistening eyes were locked on him. "He said he had to leave. He had to… It would make it safer for us, for me and for the baby. He's the Sheriff, you know. He works very hard to make it safe for us here."

Dean nodded. "Your husband had things he needed to do... He's trying to protect you..." How can you protect something when you're not there to shoot what's trying to come through the window? What needs to be done that's more important than your family? How does leaving them behind… even for their own good… How was the person left behind supposed to live like that? Dean brushed a stray tear away. He couldn't help it. His heart hurt. It ached for her. For her loss. It ached for his own loss. For the damage done. For things that couldn't be changed.

"But he promised," she said and once again Dean was reminded of how young she was.

"Sometimes, the people we love can't keep their promises, no matter how much they want to," he said gently. "Sometimes, we have to let them go..." Even if it feels like your heart's just been crushed inside your own chest.

"Mrs. Martin?" Sam said.

The girl looked up, her tear-streaked cheeks flickering in the firelight.

"Mrs. Martin, your husband is the Sheriff?" He waited for her to nod. Sam grabbed the current Sheriff by the arm and led him forward. "I found him while I was coming to meet my brother. You weren't at the house and he couldn't find you."

"Andrew?" she frowned looking up at him, confused and troubled. "Is that you?"

"Yes, ma'am," the Sheriff said, finally catching on to what Sam was trying to do. "I was so worried when I couldn't find you at the house."

"Andrew, the baby is coming," she whispered, embarrassed. "I think something is wrong. I don't know what to do."

"Shhh..." he said, soothing her. "It's all right now. I'm here and there's nothing to worry about. Your baby is going to be taken care of... He's going to be a beautiful boy."

The girl began weeping again, this time in relief. "Thank you, Andrew. Thank you for coming back for me. You promise to take care of the baby?"

She was already starting to fade. "Of course, I promise," the Sheriff said. She smiled one last time and in a tiny burst of flame, disappeared.

Dean fell back, his leg giving out. The Sheriff leaned back against the fallen tree and let out a long, slow breath.

"She seemed like a sweet lady," Sam said.

"Of course, she was," the Sheriff smiled. "She was my great-great however many times grandmother."

"You're joking," Dean said.

"You thought I was lying to her?" the Sheriff raised an eyebrow. "She died before the baby was born, but the child lived." He smiled broadly. "I come from a long, long line of Sheriffs."

Dean just looked up at him. "After the day we've had... Frankly, sir, I don't give a damn."

* * *

_Hope this kept you entertained… An epilogue tomorrow…_


	8. Chapter 8

**Looks Like Loss**

_Thank you to everyone who stuck with this little story and especially those who took the time to send a note or two._

_To you poor souls who don't get to see the season premiere tomorrow… You have my sincerest sympathies. You feel like flying over, I have a guest room…_

Chapter Seven

* * *

Dean settled more comfortably into the driver's seat as they passed the city limits sign. "Dude, I'm not sure at what point we became ghost shrinks, but this is really starting to annoy me," he sighed. 

"What would you suggest?" Sam asked.

"I'd suggest you find me something to shoot. And soon," Dean answered.

"Is that your answer to everything?"

"Uhhh… Let me think." Dean raised a hand and started counting off on his fingers. "Senseless violence. Loud music. Girls. Cars. Violence with a purpose."

"You forgot pool," Sam observed.

"It does have benefits," Dean grinned. "Sometimes it leads to senseless violence."

The Pruetts had seen them off, waving from the curb as Sam and Dean drove away. After Mrs. Martin had vanished, the four men had spent the rest of the night digging around the trees that had burned and had eventually found Agatha's grave. Apparently the trees catching fire had been enough to stir the ghost back to life after years of dormancy. Agatha hadn't liked _her_ property being damaged. She in turn had stirred the other ghosts on the property.

A trip to the emergency room had followed. Since the Sheriff had accompanied them, no one had questioned them about what looked like bullet wounds. Thankfully, nothing seemed irreparable. The doctor was a fast learner too. He hadn't even looked surprised when they'd both refused to be admitted. After that, Sam and Dean had returned to Ravenwood and had happily slept through the rest of the day and the following night.

The Sheriff had assured them he could deal with any residual problems if there were any, though his men said the woods had been quiet while they slept. If nothing else, Agatha had been salted and burned. She wouldn't be killing any more property owners.

Sam was staring at him and Dean narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"I heard what you said to Mrs. Martin."

"Yeah… well you were standing right there. Unless you're deaf, I'd think that would be a given," Dean snorted.

"It was… Just… I mean, I…"

"Look, Sam… I've got issues, you've got issues. We've _all_ got issues. It's part of life," Dean said in exasperation.

"I just wanted you to know I was listening," Sam said.

Dean nodded. He cast a sidelong glance at his brother. Sam didn't just mean he had heard. He had been _listening_. He'd heard more than the words.

Dean suddenly smiled. "I gotta admit… I always liked Melanie better than Scarlett."

"Huh?"

"Mrs. Martin and Agatha… That chick was kinda like Scarlett on acid," he snorted. "The land… blah, blah, blah…"

Sam just shook his head, but then a broad grin spread across his face. "You should have seen your face when you realized Mr. Pruett was holding your shotgun."

"Yeah! Letting some random dude go through our weapons stash! What were you thinking?" Dean asked, horrified all over again. Letting some moron get his hands on Marigold. _His _Marigold.

Sam started laughing, great belly laughs. He grabbed his injured side, but couldn't stop laughing. "Your jaw dropped open and you looked like someone had just set the car on fire. It was priceless. You were so freaked out, you almost called her Marigold. Right there in front of everybody!" He started laughing even harder.

Dean slammed on the brakes and stopped right in the middle of the road. The car behind him screeched to a halt as it too locked up its brakes and then honked its horn as it went around them.

"You _knew_?"

Sam started laughing so hard, he couldn't breathe. He slapped his knee, bent over wheezing.

"_YOU KNEW_?"

"Stop," Sam begged, gasping for breath. "My side. I can't take anymore."

"You… How did you find out?" Dean demanded. He stepped on the accelerator and moved back into the flow of traffic when another car honked as it went around them.

Sam snorted, still laughing. "Dude… Either you have more problems than I know about, or you talk to that shotgun."

"Yeah, but…"

"Dean, we spend every day together. All day, every day. Marigold isn't a name you're likely to overlook." Sam took a deep breath, though he was still grinning broadly.

"How long have you known?" Dean asked worriedly.

His brother started laughing again, perilously close to a giggle. "You probably named the car, too."

Dean studiously kept his eyes looking forward, like the view was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

"You didn't!" Sam said wide-eyed. "You named the car?"

Dean barely glanced at him, but remained silent.

"You named the car."

"Doesn't matter how many times you say it. I'm still not gonna answer."

Sam started laughing again, holding his side.

"Dude, you keep laughing and I'm gonna have to shoot you myself. I'm pretty sure I owe you one," Dean said, pulling out the 'glare of death.'

Sam pursed his lips to try and stop and finally succeeded in tailing off to only a few errant chuckles. "So what do we do now?" he asked.

"Well, I'm sure not going back to freaking Tara," Dean said.

"North then?"

"Dude, with our luck, we could go all the way to Alaska and we'd still manage to find some pissed off Eskimo chick who'd been pushed out on an ice flow," Dean observed.

"So where does that leave?" Sam raised an eyebrow.

"How about Disneyland," Dean nodded. "I'm pretty sure they forbid people to die on the property."

"Good idea," Sam said and started laughing again. "I'm sure Marigold will love it. She can play with the rest of the kiddies."

* * *

_Thus ends this little quintet of stories… Thanks again for reading. Hope you enjoyed 'em._


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